Eyes closed, he smiled blissfully, savoring the moment. A gentle breeze was bringing delicious scents, flowers, grass, moss... Birds were singing and water was lapping in harmony. A nap in the sweet meadows of childhood memories.
No.
Napoleon Solo woke up suddenly. No one could have guessed it. He kept his eyes closed, controlling his breath. He wasn't in his bedroom Scents, birds were real. So was the smooth moss he was lying on... naked.
No bed... No pillow... no gun.
In a very spontaneous gesture, he turned his head and couldn't help wincing. A lump, a huge lump... Thrush? He couldn't remember. At the moment, for all he knew, he should have been at his home, enjoying a day off. But obviously, he wasn't. He peeped through his eyelashes... grass, clovers... Well... In a split second, he got to his feet, ready for anything... and froze with horror, as he tried to keep his balance. No feet... Hooves. Furry crooked legs... He gasped. From the waist, he was... he was a goat! He palpated his painful head and felt... horns. Small horns... What the hell...
He took clumsily some uncertain steps towards the river, moved aside the reeds and looked down at his reflection.
A faun. He was... a faun, half-man, half-goat... Suddenly, he heard a rustle next to him. His hoof slid and he fell heavily in the mud, greeting by female mocking laugh.
He woke up in a sweat.
The day before...
"Mr Solo? I noticed the way you were looking at the young lady! You're not a faun, are you?", Alexander Waverly stated, pointing his pipe at his agent.